


The Waiting Game

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is that man who's been waiting in the Keep all these years?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [a post on tumblr](http://bloodmages.tumblr.com/post/54400846975). Very minor Inquisition spoilers ahead. Hope you're knowledgeable about Kirkwall politics.

**The Waiting Game**

It was the year 9:41 Dragon.

Kirkwall had just spurned the forces of Starkhaven from the City of Chains, a link in a long chain of foreign powers seeking to take advantage of the city’s turmoil. 

The Keep still stood as the head of the City’s power, though one of the impressive stone birds outside the massive doors had lost its head four years ago.

The interior of the Keep was even more austere than it was then years ago, what little finery and decoration remained were carved into the very walls. There was a small dent in one of those carved walls, no more than a half inch deep, perhaps, where nobleman Marlin Threnhold had kicked it to pass away the hours. He felt slightly proud of this minor vandalism, and he kicked the wall again with his heavy boots—also more austere than the fashions he wore ten years ago.

“Messere, please—”

“Sod off! I’ll kick this wall if I damn well please, and you and I both know there aren’t enough guards to throw me out.”

“I… no, it’s just… the Viscount will see you now.”

The words almost didn’t register, despite the fact he’d been waiting a decade to hear them.

“What?”

“I said the Viscount will see you now,” the servant repeated softly.

In the past, the nobleman had envisioned seeing the Viscount in full court, seated on his throne in front of his peers. A throne that might have been his, if not for the folly of his father.

The reality was much different.

Instead he stood across a cluttered desk from former Seneschal Bran.

Before he could open his mouth, Bran held up a hand.

“Please, Messere, I know why you are here, and you should know I am somewhat the architect of your long wait—although not entirely. Given the upheaval this City has suffered, I’m sure you’d agree property disputes are of minor consequence when faced with the very survival of the entire city-state.” Bran had aged more in the past six months since taking the office of Viscount than he had in the entire ten years Marlin had known him. He did not look well, his hair remarkably greyed and lines set a bit heavier around his eyes and brow—he seemed sturdier than Dumar, despite all of it.

Bran continued, as though he had adequately apologized for keeping an entire family waiting for over a decade. “Given the current… situation, I thought we might work out a… beneficial arrangement.”

“A beneficial arrangement would be you relinquishing my family’s property that was seized in a political dispute nearly twenty years ago. You know what holdings I want back.”

“I could give you more,” Bran said simply, dropping his obsequious front, for once.

“What?”

“You are the heir of Perrin Threnhold—something that has meant very little since his deposal,”

“I’m not following you Viscount, are you going to give me the holdings or not?”

Bran cringed at the title, “What I’m saying, Messere, is you could grant them back to yourself.”

“What? Are you mad? To do that I’d need to be—”

“Seated on the Viscount’s throne, yes,” the former Seneschal sounded a little _too_ eager.

Marlin wanted to laugh. A title he’d given up on long ago was now nearly being thrust into his hands. He shook his head, “I suppose it makes sense. I have… a somewhat legitimate claim, Meredith’s gone, the Champion’s gone, and no one else has stepped up. Why not the disgraced House of Threnhold? That’s your plan, is it?” He did chuckle then, low and bitterly.

Bran wrapped his hand around one of the official seals on his desk, looking at Marlin with bated breath. After a tense and terrible silence Bran dared to speak again, “The office  _needs_  continuity, Messere. The city needs its true heir, not a hand-picked puppet like Dumar, not outsiders like the Champion, and not interlopers like the Templars. The time is ripe, this could be a true dawn for Kirkwall—for its Viscount. You could continue Perrin’s legacy and reshape the city without Templar rule.”

It did hold a certain amount of appeal. Too much appeal, really. Marlin narrowed his eyes at the former Seneschal, “You always know what to say, don’t you Bran?” He considered the matter longer than he wanted to, despite everything, despite his resolve.

However, Marlin Threnhold was no fool, and he knew what Bran truly wanted—an out. Nothing was that simple, and Kirkwall was constantly fending off hostile invasions, or invasions under the guise of aid, and the thought of being in charge of all that did not excite Marlin in the least. He shook his head. If the man wasn’t so acerbic—and largely responsible for a decade long wait to a simple property dispute, he might have pitied Bran.

Marlin crossed his arms, “Did you hope to incite my jealousy by bringing up the Champion? Did you hope to spur my sense of familial honor by bringing up Dumar? Did you hope to fool me into thinking I had ambition like my father?” He gave a short bark of bitter laughter, “Or did you simply hope to dazzle me with the promise of power and greatness, with a place in shaping history? You gambled wrong, Bran. The only thing I want are the holdings that were seized long ago.” Marlin felt a surge of satisfaction course through him as what little color was let in Bran’s wan face drained from it. Let the obsequious little shit stew in his own mess awhile longer. The Viscount could wait, for a change.

Bran seemed to recover after a moment, “Very well Messere Threnhold, the office recognizes that you reject our offer, but you should know I am only the _provisional_  Viscount, with _provisional authority_.” Marlin felt a bit of cold dread creep into his heart, and the feeling of triumph slowly started to drain away.

Bran smiled at him, almost pleasantly, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were as immobile as the stone crows outside the Keep, “Unfortunately, as I am only the  _acting_  Viscount, I do not hold sufficient authority to release the City’s holdings back to your family at this time. Only a true Viscount who has assumed the office can grant them back to you.”

The provisional Viscount sat down at his desk and pressed his fingertips together, still smirking up at Marlin, “You’ll have to wait, Messere.”

Marlin didn’t realize his fists were balled and shaking. He narrowed his eyes at Bran. “So will you,” and he turned to leave.

Bran’s voice followed him, “If you find yourself impatient to have this matter resolved… you can always change your mind, Messere Threnhold.”

Threnhold barked out a laugh, and without turning around he looked back over his shoulder, “Get used to waiting,  _Viscount Bran_.”

Marlin Threnhold had already waited ten years. 

He could wait a little more.

It if meant besting former Seneschal Bran, the  _Provisional_  Viscount of Kirkwall—he would wait an eternity.

**-FIN-**


End file.
